In Darkness, Dancing
by The Fictionist
Summary: John Watson is a struggling dancer at London's prestigious Royal Ballet School. In such a fiercely competitive atmosphere, with ambitions sharp and tensions high - private tutelage from even the shadowy Phantom that haunts the building seems like a wish come true. But all wishes come with a price. ...PhantomBalletlock.
1. Prologue

_Sherlock had always loved dancing._

_When his parents first took him and Mycroft to see the Ballet, even in his childhood mind he was sceptical._

_He'd never particularly enjoyed sports, preferred cerebral pursuits to the physical. He found no pleasure in athletics, or rugby – swimming was a useful skill, but otherwise a tedious affair of splashing and cold water._

_But the Ballet…_

_He'd found himself entranced by the way the dancers seemed to glide across the floor. More like ethereal marionettes upon the stage, than people. They seemed effortlessly graceful; fascinating in their twirls and leaps, intricate in the careful steps and nuances of balance and weight._

_It was…exquisite._

_It was freedom in precision, fluidity in routine. In a world of ugliness and stupidity, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen._

_Sherlock wanted, immediately._

_And he'd always been good at getting what he wanted._

* * *

John was of the strong opinion that hard work was everything.

As a child, he'd learnt the names of insects in the garden, he'd studied his alphabets and his numbers, and later, he made an art of holding secrets clenched behind his teeth.

He learnt how to ride a bike, and write, and everyone always said that anything he wanted could be achieved through hard work. Putting the effort in, and keeping at it with long hours and dedication.

He found something he liked, and he stuck to it.

He slogged the hours in; the sweat and the bruises and the crinkles of concentration upon his brow, the repetition and the repetition and the dwindling hours of daylight.

It was the same with ballet.

But it wasn't enough.

* * *

The Royal Ballet School, at the Royal Opera House in London, was one of the highest honours of dancing someone in his field could hope to aspire to.

Brutally competitive, ruthlessly demanding – only the very crème de la crop made it to those white hallowed halls, and even less to the stage.

John didn't realize it wouldn't be enough until he saw them.

And it was then that he met him.

* * *

It was dark. The lessons for the day were long since over, the studios left empty and unlit.

Nobody but the Opera Ghost around – and he was not to be mentioned lightly - though the understudies and the students still whispered.

_If you mess up, the Opera Ghost will get you. He knows if you don't practice._

Really, he should have gone home, with everyone else. Staying late was to risk a sudden fall, a sprained ankle, a broken leg, a fallen chandelier. Wrath.

_They said he was a phantom, a tormented spirit of a performance years ago. Doomed to haunt the Opera House, to stalk the steps of dancers where he himself had fallen._

But John stayed.

Thought, maybe…if he just put in the extra hours, he could catch up. He could grasp what they had, and he didn't.

They were like shards of glass on silk.

Blindingly focused; snatches of sunlight in the dust, so cold they burned, sharply ambitious and seeming like they were flying more than dancing. The delicate press of feet on the ground, lightning fast – they followed spider webs he couldn't see, balanced on some line he couldn't find.

John knew the moves like the back of his hand. Could count the steps like clockwork. He had the precision of the best surgeon, the nerves of a soldier unwavering in the field of battle. He didn't melt under the stage lights, hot like desert sands.

And yet…there was always something missing.

He wetted his lips, crunching a now empty plastic cup of water in his hands.

The music came to a stop, as he ran a quivering hand through his hair. Started all over again.

_Pas de Basques…Pirouettes…Tendues… Soubresauts…Echappes…and…_

"What's your name?"

John nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped around, losing his balance mid turn and stumbling.

There was no one there; no one that he could see, at least. He swallowed, eyes glancing around, catching only his own reflection in the long line of mirrors along the wall.

"Who's there?" he called out, softly.

"I asked you a question." The baritone seemed to rumble in his bones. After that, there was silence, and only more reflections in the mirror. Only himself. He felt a chill threaten settle in his blood, and then spark like live wires.

The adrenaline injected steel into his spine, and he straightened, chin tipped up.

"John…" he replied, finally. "John Watson."

"John Watson…" the voice repeated, with an almost purr. John turned again, still trying to frantically see who the hell he was speaking to. Even if he was suddenly certain that there was no one there to see. No one alive. Just ghosts. "What do you think about, when you dance, John?"

In the end, he decided to just come to a halt at the centre of the room instead of spinning around like an idiot. His brow furrowed a little at the question.

Maybe this was somebody's sick idea of a joke? Moran's, maybe. Moriarty would have let his protege get away with murder.

But it didn't sound like any voice he'd ever heard, during rehearsals or otherwise.

"Who am I talking to?"

"You know who you're talking to." The voice was dismissive, disdaining of the question. "And if you don't, I'm sure you can muster the intelligence to make an educated guess. You considered becoming a doctor, did you not? One would assume you're not an idiot."

John's jaw clenched slightly, fingers flexing.

"You're the Opera Ghost," he bit out. "Or at least that's what they call you."  
He squared his shoulders.

"Correct, John Watson. Now, answer my question. What do you think about when you dance?"

"The steps, of course."

"Of course." The phantom sounded...amused. If his heart wasn't hammering so hard in his chest, John might have been offended. There was no immediate response at that, and the only sound he could hear was his own.

Had the ghost left?

"Why do you ask?" he asked, eventually. The sound of his voice lay heavy on the air. For a moment, he was convinced that he wouldn't get an answer at all.

"From now on, you will stay behind when your…classes finish, for private tuition. In this room. Don't keep me waiting."

"What -" his mind whirled. "Wait - I don't understand-"

"Oh, don't say that. You were quite promising," the voice drawled. "I believe my instructions were self-explanatory enough."

"Why would you tutor me?" John demanded, before he could be interrupted again. "You know nothing about me."

"I have seen you dance, and I know what you are capable of. That is more than enough to be getting on with, in my opinion. I know. Tomorrow, Seven O clock. Don't be late, John." He could practically hear the smirk on the other's lips. "You've heard the rumours of what I'm capable of."

Even when he tried calling after that, there was no answer.

* * *

_It had been a long time._

_A very long time, since staring wide-eyed at the dancers, and his own first Ballet classes. A very long time, since practicing pirouettes in the bedroom mirror in the dead of night. Decades since his first rehearsal, and years since everything came falling down._

_Petrushka..._

_Years alone in the dark and the dust, settled and cursed for dead in the tunnels below the Opera House._

_Sherlock knew every crevice of the Royal Ballet School. He knew every room, every corridor, every breath of its occupants, every hope and dream and despair._

_Years with just the music. With just the Ballet._

_With the sweat on his body, and the hitch of his breath, and the flash of a white mask as he twirled._

_And then there was John Watson._

* * *

Don't even ask how I got the inspiration for this one. It started with me wanting Dark Balletlock. Then it so happened that in my research I came across the fact that the Royal Ballet School was run in London's Royal Opera House. It also so happened that I've been dying to do a Phantom of the Opera inspired crossover thing.

Hence...this. Enjoy.

PS: If you have any better suggestions for a title, I am all ears.

PPS: No, my other stories are not abandoned. I just have this plot bunny compulsion, where if I ignore one that properly latches on I start itching and can't concentrate on anything else...


	2. A Conductor

"No – no, stop!" The baritone, so purring and almost seductive the day before, had transformed.

John came to a stop in the centre of the room, chest heaving for breath. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and wiped his face with the hem of his t-shirt.

He'd had considered not attending the lessons.

The Opera Ghost's offer weighed on his mind all day prior; it haunted his steps and dragged his heels across the floor.

Moriarty had scolded him even more than normal for his distraction.

He hadn't been at the Royal Ballet school long, but it had soon become evident that his instructor was...well, John didn't quite know how to put it.

It wasn't that Jim Moriarty wasn't pleasant. He was certainly a masterful choreographer and instructor. If the others danced on webs too high for John to see, invisible threads where they leapt suspended between the possibility of triumph and despair, than Moriarty was the web spinner.

Certainly, it was immediately obvious that their instructor was a genius of unparalleled vision.

But there was always something in Moriarty's gaze. It seemed paradoxical to describe someone's eyes to be simultaneously dead and alive, but if such a contradiction existed it was within James Moriarty.

John couldn't put his finger on him – and he'd always considered himself a good judge of character.

The man had never had all that much interest in him either way. He wasn't one of the shining ones, the favourites handpicked and crafted lovingly.

He was a stone among gems, and in Moriarty's presence maybe that just showed all too clearly by comparison. Particularly today when he was speared with those blank faced looks that seemed to place him under silent judgment, and find him guilty. John was condemned for the worst crime that could be done here – ugliness.

His breath sounded too loud, too harsh and panting, in the empty practise room.

"What?" his brow furrowed. "I'm not missing a step."

He heard a long suffering sigh – some dark muttering, though he couldn't hear the specifics. He had a feeling he probably didn't want to either.

Once again, the Phantom was hidden from view. Or not there at all.

John didn't like to consider himself crazy, but he'd never been one to indulge in superstition either. He'd never believed in the Supernatural.

Maybe he was desperate. He had to be, to be twirling under the command of a disembodied voice.

"Close your eyes." This time, the ghost sounded much closer. John hesitated for a moment, and could slowly feel the disapproval grow pointed as he remained disobedient to his phantom tutor. He shut his eyes.

It hadn't even been a minute before he felt hands settle on his waist.

For the second time in as many days, he jumped. A hand immediately slapped over his eyes as they opened. He could feel breath against his ear, a lean body pressed flush and looming against his back.

"_Eyes_."

This wasn't a ghost. This very much wasn't a ghost. So what exactly was going on here? He swallowed, thickly, and closed his eyes. Felt himself go very calm again, in response. He heard a low chuckle, but the hand didn't immediately move away.

"You have a problem, John Watson," the 'phantom' continued. "No, you have two problems - one rather more fascinating, if I do say so myself."

"And what's that?" he asked, evenly. He could feel his heart skittering in his chest again.

"You cannot rehearse."

It was probably just as well his mysterious tutor kept a hand over his eyes, because they flew open in shock.

"I know how to rehearse." If there was anything he knew how to do – it was that. To repeat the movements until they were stored into his memory. He knew the hours in front of the mirror, and effort, and practise perfect. Rehearsing for some greater role in life was all he ever did.

Sometimes, he thought he would have joined the army, if not for the ballet.

"Forgive me for my phrasing." The petulant fury of earlier had gone. "But it's true, in its way. You are horrendous in practise. Stiff, bland. Not bad, I suppose, but a mediocre dancer in all respects, and certainly too plain for this academy. Boring."

"Then why are you teaching me?" He almost growled the words out, jerking in the grip that tightened ferociously the second he started to shift. They clamped him unforgivingly in place, far stronger than he had expected.

"Because I've seen you when you're not rehearsing."

John's breath caught in his throat – not for the words, but the way they were said. He'd thought the dancers in his class were intense, that Jim Moriarty was, but by comparison it was absolutely nothing. He wasn't sure what it was in the phantom's voice, but there was something certainly. Undiluted, and focused squarely on him as if he was the centre of the universe. It seduced his senses.

"Excuse me?" he wetted his lips.

"I find it interesting that in and out of all the dances of the world, you would choose the one notorious for its high pressure," the voice murmured. As the background of the music shifted to the next track, the hand finally slipped from his eyes, tracing over his fluttering pulse, down his arm, taking hold of his wrist. It was pretty obvious he wasn't supposed to turn his head by the way the hand had paused to keep his chin up, but pointedly forwards.

God, he wanted to turn around.

And then…he was dancing, slowly, with fingers dragging along his skin, twisting him up with the smallest pressure and smoothing him out as the music reached crescendo, pliable, like shuddered breath or a fresh sheet.

"You need pressure," the voice murmured low in his ear. Like a promise. "You need the surging of your blood in your veins, the adrenaline tearing through you so hard that you can barely think straight. Pushed entirely to your limit, and then further still until you're all but shattered across the stage."

John's mouth opened to protest – to, to do or say _something. _That was absurd.

"You're wrong," he said.

"I'm never wrong." He could _hear _the smirk, even if he couldn't see it.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the Phantom of the Opera. You know that. We've had this conversatio already, I do hope you're not going to insist on repeating it again" And yet, there was something to the man's tone too – almost coy, teasing. John's lips pinched thin.

"You're rather solid for a ghost."

"Ballet is so much more than just the steps, John," the man replied instead, mouth against his ear once more. It was almost excruciating keeping his eyes forward, knowing that if he just flicked them to the side he could _see_...but he knew that if he did, with all likelihood any lessons or communications between them would cease.

It was plain that the Phantom wanted to remain invisible to him. For whatever reason. Maybe he should be worried. But he also felt looking would cost a greater price, considering the accidents attributed to the man.

Or, at least, those attributed to who his instructor was pretending to be. Whether there really was a ghost, and whether he really was the cause of all the 'incidents', remained a mystery.

Either way, he needed these lessons. He'd come too far to give up now. He had a feeling his tutor knew that too.

"A good dancer will always know the steps," the phantom continued in his ear. "But the steps are the bare minimum. Hard work is expected in our trade, and you cannot hope to succeed with just that. To be a true dancer, a true artist, it requires something else. Passion." He was spun on the spot, sharply, as if he should be the one being led rather than the other way round in a dance, and the hand settled on his eyes again just as quickly before he could look. He could feel breath puffing against his face, like a lover's caress. "Flair."

"I have passion."

"Just not for rehearsing."

Well, John supposed that was true. Normally he was so concentrated on counting steps like clockwork to put all too much in any self expression. Certainly not in practice, when he was so concerned with keeping up that anything else seemed impossible on top of that.

"Well, unfortunately, that doesn't help me much," he said. He heard a low, considering hum.

"Just as well I offered my timely assistance then. Now - _dance for me_."

* * *

It was difficult to pinpoint the exact peculiarity of John Watson.

Ordinary in most accounts, he did not seem to shine brightly...he was attractive but not uncommonly so. He cut an unassuming figure and, whilst intelligent, he could hardly be considered prodigal.

And yet, Sherlock found himself fascinated.

Everyone in the Ballet School shone brightly - certainly bright enough for them to be picked and plucked and accepted. They were snatches of gold, sequins, pretty little things like swan feathers. Some may even be jewels.

John Watson was none of those things.

John Watson was solid, and warm, not innocent but undeniably _good. _He didn't have the alluring seduction of the supposed star Ballerina, the Black Swan Irene Adler. Nor was he soft enough, sweet enough in the eyes and the mouth, to be lovely white like Molly Hooper. White to make the audience melt for innocence and fragility.

He did not have the strength and feral danger of Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's prize favourite.

John Watson was, however, perfect. To him. Though he could imagine why Moriarty, magpie that he was, would not be so easily charmed. Because John Watson was a conductor.

Of course Moriarty couldn't use him. Moriarty was a shadow that walked in the middle of sunlight, imprinted out of the shapes of those he surrounded himself. He was the threads that nobody saw. He was a chameleon, adapting and receiving instead of transmitting.

John Watson was mediocre at dancing without something to reflect and conduct off.

John Watson was exactly what he'd been waiting for.

"It won't work, you know."

Sherlock didn't turn at the voice. The only voice to ever address him, sly and Irish, and still full of infuriating victory. His hand did freeze on his violin for a moment though, in the gloom, at the topic though. The change in routine.

Felt a small smile cross his lips, sharp and vicious.

"And yet you're worried enough to descend from your throne to visit me," he countered.

He heard Jim pick through the dust, could imagine the wrinkle of his nose, the way those fingers trailed over and smeared his belongings with the audacity of touch.

"Worried? Oh, I'm not _worried_, Sherlock." Moriarty rolled the worlds on his tongue, obscenely stretched. Finally came to a stop next to him, hands slipped into expensive pockets. "It's cute you're trying though. Adorable, really. But he won't save you. Little John Watson."

Sherlock's head snapped away sharply as those fingers reached for his mask next, reared away across the room, to the sound of laughter.

He'd known Jim Moriarty for a very long time.

When he'd first met the man, he'd been dazzled. Endlessly fascinated – because a black hole can only raise questions, when it doesn't emit answers to be read so easily. Not even by him.

"Maybe I'm not looking for a saviour anymore," Sherlock murmured.

There'd been a few over the years, who he thought could work. But they never did. He soon saw how they disappointed, and his mouth turned sour.

"Oh?" Jim raised his brows, almost comically. "And there I thought he seemed exactly your type. It's why I took him in, you know. I knew you'd like him."

Sherlock ignored the spiteful glee and bait in the other's tone; finally turned to face the parasite, eyes glinting back at him like broken glass in the darkness. Moriarty's head tilted at his expression, eyes wide. A mockery of innocence, which hardened at his lack of response.

"You brought it upon yourself." The other's voice wavered as he continued, slipping nauseatingly between octaves. "I _told _you – _I told you _– what would happen. But you didn't listen to me."

No, he didn't want a saviour this time.  
He wanted a weapon.

The game wasn't over yet.  
This was simply round two.

He settled his bow and started to play.

* * *

_A/N: Promise this story will pick up soon! I've about finished the set up now. Bear with me, please. New fandoms and all that. Reviews would, thus, be much appreciated :)_


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